New Zealand, a long needed holiday

Back from my first rough adventure (4 days without 4G!). On Friday the 15th, I took an expensive ferry from the South Island to Stewart Island (Rakiura in Māori). Before boarding the boat, I drove through Invercargill and Bluff, two small cities. Interestingly, the housing architecture closely resembles that of the American Far West, with great porches in front of the buildings and little frontal walls on top of the roofs—think about the typical saloons of Lucky Luke. Alas, they are all in a terrible state, often spoiled by modernity and the shameful decay of new minimalism and capitalistic advertisement.

The boat ride itself wasn’t all too pleasant. I had a 20kg backpack, so to avoid extra weight, I drank the greater part of a two-liter bottle of fresh milk before embarkation. The rough sea and the many waves transformed the milk in my belly into thick whipped cream—quite an unpleasant sensation.

After landing on the shores of Oban, Stewart Island, I met a Swiss guy who was about to attempt an impressive tour around the island: it would take him roughly 10 days, maneuvering through knee-deep mud and soul-crushing loneliness—all by himself in the thick wilderness of Rakiura. I, however, had to content myself with a 4-day tour—not having time for more.

The dilemma of the trip: which camera to take with me. I finally opted for the Nikon F5 (film camera) and left my digital Fujifilm in the car (anxiously, since the last time I left a camera in my car, it ended terribly). Together with my tent, mattress, sleeping bag, food for 4 days, and plenty of water, my bag weighed close to 20kg. No spare clothes, no luxuries.

The walk itself was fascinating: white beaches, palm trees, and a jungle forest similar to the Jurassic period (quite literally, as most of the plants were fern-like or palm-like, ancient plants!). I spent the first night in my little tent on a Māori beach, almost alone except for a couple some hundred meters away. In the evening, a sea lion showed up in front of me—a beautiful sight (but be warned, sea lions are aggressive animals).

Rainy night. Rainy morning. I packed up the tent in the rain and headed to the next stop: Port William, a bigger place with approximately 20 other people. I made contact with a forester named Leo, 22 years old, living in the jungle for most of the year. We had a long and interesting chat about the fauna and flora here (there are even great white sharks in the area!). Later, I met a Viking-like Swedish guy and a French couple, all of whom had quit their jobs and were spending months traveling across NZ and Australia. Quitting your job and spending months on an island seems to be the trend here.

I enjoyed warm chocolate milk at the forester’s cabin, and after sunset, we went on a nighttime hike with red light torches, hoping to spot a few Kiwi (the wingless birds only found in NZ). We didn’t find any, but we did run into a sea lion, hidden away in the jungle—terrifyingly fascinating!

I also made contact with a Polish couple, who moved to NZ a year ago and didn’t regret it at all (except maybe for the lack of classical culture). The third day was the toughest: thick patches of knee-high mud (thanks to two rainy days before). Luckily, my bag got lighter as my body grew accustomed to the weight and the food was consumed.

I made contact with a Canadian microbiologist and a German IT guy, who worked online most of his life, allowing him to travel. Bizarrely, he thought I was the perfect person to discuss his personal troubles with. Even 18,000 km away, my job still haunts me!

On Monday, the hike was supposed to take 6-7 hours, but because I had a ferry to catch, I adopted a military march rhythm. The result: I completed the muddy track in 3 hours, giving me an extra 3.5 hours to enjoy a few well-earned beers, which I shared with a French strategy consultant and a Czech branch manager of Skoda. A few hours later, the French couple also joined us.

I ate some fish soup, which probably wasn’t very fresh, as it found its way back up a few hours later, decorating the toilet of my hotel in Invercargill. I spent 4 days drinking rainwater, river water, and eating questionable foods, but a fish soup from a decent restaurant is what finally downed me.

There and back again—the story of a boy who was quite ready for another adventure. As my family wraps up the 25th birthday celebrations for Sibylla this evening in Brussels, I set foot on the soil of this new world. My flight was a mixed delight: this time, I flew in a regular economy seat. This meant a dreadful check-in, mayhem, and nerve-wracking TSA security checks. The stress radiated from my neck straight to my head. Feeling moody, I had to get my traditional pre-flight beer to avoid any escalation of these doomsday feelings.

We are modern-age cattle, nothing but meat and bones, anonymously pressed through the fuselage’s doors. We’ve become numbers, tattooed on a flimsy piece of paper—our new identity. No cardboard tickets for us poor peasants, just a fine slip of paper you’d expect from a supermarket receipt. From now on, I’m called 45D.

Let’s not be too dramatic and grumpy, though. The seats were rather wide in this flying wonder and were organized in 3 sets of 3. The plane wasn’t fully booked, so the two seats next to me in the middle aisle were still free (until, after take-off, a snack-eating gorilla came and sat in my row, devouring maybe 5-6 packs of cookies between meals). Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to sleep—I’ve never been able to sleep in a seated position.

Arrival in Auckland: I’m exhausted! Thankfully, passport control and customs went quickly. NOT! Instead of Christmas bells and whistles, the airport was decorated with huge banners warning tourists not to bring in any undeclared biohazards, food, or duty-free products. I was carrying mountaineering boots and a few seashells from Okinawa, so I had to go through 4 extra checks! First: hazardous products declaration. Second: duty customs. They wanted me to pay a 15% import tax for a gift I bought for someone. Luckily, my puppy eyes softened the customs officer’s heart, and she let me go with a “warning.”

So, even on the other side of the world, we aren’t safe from the government’s tax-gobbling tricks. Vive la Révolution! After these hurdles were finally crossed, I checked my bag for my next flight to Queenstown tonight and then took the bus to downtown Auckland.

A small piece of appreciation: from the very first customs officer, I noticed an exceptional and sincere friendliness from the Kiwis. They’re helpful, cheerful, and kind. Right now, after three weeks of Japanese food, I’m finally enjoying an English pie with sausages and mashed potatoes in this lovely London pub.